


Plus One

by executrix



Category: Empire (TV 2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A treat for Roxie Ann who thinks Michael is good for Jamal. I agree, and for once I'd like Michael to get a little attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/gifts).



“Smile bigger!” said LaWondra, the reporter from Entertainment Weekly. “Give ‘em all that star power! Let them see your fabulous face.” The reporter stepped aside to let the photographer do his work. But really, with a young, handsome guy, who barely needed an Instagram filter, just about any shot would do. 

“Our readers love origin stories,” LaWondra said. “And what’s not to like? It just makes you feel good when somebody comes up from nothing, and they zoom right to the top because of their talent. And that special drive.”

“It takes a village, you know? Or a pueblo. Or a barrio, or a ‘hood. Not just one person,” Michael said. “Sure, it was always my dream to have a restaurant, or, whatever way to just cook food and make people happy. So, I was going to cooking school, and worrying about how I was ever going to pay back my loans. And I had to do a term project, you know? And my cousin Lourdes is a filmmaker.” He carefully spelled out all of her social media contact information so it would be in EW. “She did such a fabulous job that not only did I get an A, but I got a pickup. Uhh, the show got a pickup. And now SoulConFusion is, well, really popular, so thanks to everybody who’s watching it, and liveblogging it! And I’m working on a cookbook! And look over there. That’s Jamal Lyon. He’s my partner. You know his music, you know what a talented star he is.” 

Jamal tried to evolve a smile from his ghastly death’s head grin. Now the shoe was on the other foot. And the foot had a corn. 

Michael was glad he didn’t have time for more than a soundbite, because it was hard to explain (or even keep track) if Jamal was back with Empire or with Lyon Dynasty, because, what day was it and did it matter if it was before or after lunch? Michael just hoped that the reporters and the bloggers would be sure to put Jamal’s name in the captions, Jamal could sulk for days if the photo just said “Michael Sanchez” and not “Jamal Lyon and Michael Sanchez” or “Michael Sanchez and friend” or, worst of all, not mention Jamal at all.

“Did you get to see all the rooms?” Michael asked. “Uh, all the, you know, areas,” because it was a loft. “We decided to buy in Hoboken, ‘cause it’s more affordable than Brooklyn, and we like the scene here. We don’t have a car, parking here is a _puta_ and anyway we drive worse than Buffy, so we just get an Uber or car service when we have to go anyplace.”

“Like tonight,” LaWondra said. “You’ll be at the benefit for MusiKids, right?”

“Jamal is on the board,” Michael said proudly. “And he’ll be playing a brand-new song tonight, so the people at the benefit will be the first to hear it.” Having been a poor person himself, he sometimes wished that instead of having benefits, the rich people would just, like, put the money they spent into a big box and let poor people grab a fistful or so.

The door opened, and Cookie sashayed in. She held one arm over her head. Two garment bags swayed in gentle counterpoint to her hips. She must have practiced in the elevator, Dances With Suits sharing her soul with Stands With Fist. “Here,” she said, handing the bags to Michael. “The man pushin’ the big rack on wheels gave ‘em to the doorman. He say, he from Ermengildo Zegna, they sent you some suits to wear.”   
Jamal shook his head. At first he wondered how Cookie ever spent more than ten minutes in prison, given her ability to turn up uninvited. Then he decided her superpower must be getting into places where they didn’t want her, rather than getting out of places they wanted to keep her.

“LaWondra, this is my mama-out-law, Cookie Lyon,” Michael said, with a courteous little bob of his head. “Cookie, LaWondra’s a reporter for Entertainment Weekly.” _Just call me Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,_ Michael thought ’Cause I am in love but I don’t want to get married into all that hot mess.

“EW! Hello, EW!” Cookie said. She rotated her left index finger, first in a flat circle mid-torso, then perpendicular to her temple (the international logo of cray-cray). “I remember when you was dirt poor, maybe they’d give you some clothes, but if you was just regular poor, you’d gotta buy ‘em at the K-Mart or the Sally Ann. Now you rich, and they give ‘em to you.” 

“We like Zegna for the red carpet,” Michael said. Cookie wore a pretty dress, amethyst knit (for once, Michael thought, it didn’t look like she peeled it off something dead, although it was tight enough for Hammerspace). 

“Y’all know about my company, Lyon Dynasty, right? You know what I always say, Black Beats Matter. Why don’t you come with me, there’s a little place down the block where they know me. They fry a slammin’ chicken, serve it to you with a cold 40 except it’s Veuve Clicquot and a straw.”

Jamal protested ineffectively, but Michael just shrugged at his interview being hijacked. It was about time to get ready anyway. 

Michael fixed them salads, grilled rainbow trout over mesclun and avocado with a ponzu vinaigrette. Because you didn’t want to go to a party too hungry, or the canapés would look far too tempting. The camera adds ten pounds, he reminded himself. He put avocados in almost everything, telling himself—and his audience—that yes, they have a lot of fat, but it’s *good* fat. _After I’m all over being on TV, when I’m an executive chef, then I can be a little heavy._

Michael did the dishes, and then climbed into the shower with Jamal. The shower had a floor like river pebbles, but not slippery, and soft. The sliding door was dark gold glass, and it poured light over Jamal that made Michael think he looked like a real Lion King. It was a big shower, but not so big that with both of them in there somebody’s ass wasn’t freezing off out of the hot water. They slid into turns, one and then the other under the showerhead, one hand full of two hard-ons, the bland taste of hot water on skin and the nasty flat taste of soap. (Sometimes Michael crouched down, but he always got water up his nose so it wasn’t successful.) _Because_ Michael thought, _you didn’t want to go to a party hungry, or the cupcakes would look far too tempting_.

Michael wore his tuxedo with a shirt with a tiny ruffle, open over a Virgen de Guadalupe scapular and patent pumps with a grosgrain bow. Jamal wore his with a wing-collar shirt and a narrow kente cloth bow tie that matched his cummerbund, with suede Beatle boots. 

Jamal practiced a few chords on the keyboard, and vocalized a little to warm up.

“That new song is wonderful, but where’s the rest of the album?” Michael asked.

“When do I have time to work on it? We’re going out tonight. Tomorrow, we’re going to Sam’s loft, do some improv. Saturday, that’s Ronnie and Todd’s bachelor party. Sunday, we’re taking those out-of-town visiting firemen to “Hamilton.” Monday, the decorator is coming with paint samples.” 

“Tuesday, you have a board meeting,” Michael said. “No, not MusiKids, this one is STEM for Kids of Color. But Wednesday! After I wrap the show, we have the whole evening and the whole night, just us. We can play Dragon Age: Inquisition and have a Jane the Virgin marathon! Just you and me!”


End file.
